


One for the Road

by Dori



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, HE IS, Noncanonical Character Death, Other, Shut up Riley's cool, dammit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-31
Updated: 2006-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:59:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dori/pseuds/Dori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy doesn't love Riley.  This is how he copes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One for the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing with them, I'll put them back when I'm done.
> 
> Written between "Listening to Fear" and "Into the Woods." It was the thing I was most afraid of at the time. Of course, then Joss gave us Sam Finn...

_This is the last time_ , he tells himself as he walks down the dim hallway. It reeks of rats and urine and dead things. The bare, splintered floorboards squeak under his shoes, and he's careful not to look too closely into the shadowy corners or through any of the open doors. "The last time," he whispers as he comes to the end of the hall, "No more after this." It's becoming a mantra.

He's in front of the door now, staring at the peeling beige paint and the rust that bubbles up underneath it like sickness, like despair, and for one bright moment he can almost turn around and go, back to the daylight, back to the hospital where Buffy is sitting with Joyce and being ruthlessly cheerful, but, _Just this one last time_ , he thinks, _One more. For the road._

He lifts his hand, sets it on the doorknob. The lock clatters in the doorframe; his hand is shaking. Swearing under his breath, he pushes, hard, and the cheap lock breaks. Or maybe the door was ajar--it flies open, bangs against the wall, and the woman in the room--the vampire--looks up, her face morphing into the demon's for a second before she recognizes him and shakes it off.

"Well," she says, her voice low and breathy, "I thought you'd be back."

"Shut up," he growls, and narrows his eyes. "I'm not here to talk."

She affects a pout. Hips swaying, she walks to him, brushes the backs of her fingers over his cheek, slides her hand around to cradle the back of his skull, tipping his head to the side to expose his throat. Her fingers feel gentle, but he knows that the touch will turn into the steel grip of her full vampire strength if he tries to escape.

He reaches for his hip pocket, pulls out the stake he's brought, sets it against her breastbone, dimpling the fabric of her blouse. "No," he says, through his teeth, "Arm." She snarls softly and her eyes glow yellow as her fingers dig into his neck. He presses the tip of the stake into her chest until it pierces the cloth, breaks the skin. A red blossom of blood opens on the dingy green jersey of her blouse and her nostrils flare. Her tongue darts out, flicks the corner of her mouth, and she whimpers, reaches up and wraps her fingers around his where he holds the stake.

"Come on, soldier boy, you're not gonna dust me before you get what you want, are you?" she says, her voice gone smoky and sweet. Her thumb strokes over the back of his hand once, twice. She pulls, and the stake goes deeper, into the bone. He pulls it back and she smiles, showing teeth. "I thought not."

She steps back, tugs on his hand, leads him to an overstuffed chair, pushes him down into it. The stake, he notices, is gone from his hand, and he looks up to see her twirling it between her fingers. The demon is out, and laughing at him. The stake clatters to the floor as she kneels beside the chair. Waiting.

For a moment he does nothing, merely stares at her, studying the demon face. He can still change his mind, he thinks, there'd be enough time to get to the stake if he surprised her and threw her across the room. He imagines her shocked expression if he were to grab her, imagines her falling to dust before him as he stakes her, but he doesn't make the move. Instead, he lifts his arm onto the high side of the chair, turns his hand palm up so that the bend of his elbow is opened for her. Waiting.

Her mouth is chill, her tongue cold as she laps at the scars in the crook of his arm. He shivers at the touch, lets his head fall back against the chair, lets his eyes close, lets himself wish for a fleeting instant that it were Buffy's warm mouth there on his skin instead of the cold, undead touch of the vampire. And then her teeth pierce him, and the pain is sharp and stinging and bittersweet, and Buffy is the last thing on his mind.

The pain sings in him, high and thin at first, deepening into a melody that melts his bones, catches his breath, makes his pulse flutter and race and stumble, starts a familiar ache in his groin. As he feels the pull of her cold mouth, hears the small moans she makes as she takes his blood, the melody deepens further to a bass throb, a slow double-thump rhythm that he knows comes from his laboring heart.

He opens his eyes to find that all the colors are going out of the dismal room--bright to pastel to sepia to grey, and finally, finally, the black creeps in around the edges, veiling the furniture, the dusty floor, the grimy walls, until the quiet, gentle darkness holds him. Sight, sound, memory, passion, hope, all are hidden inside it, and at last he can rest.

It's beyond everything he'd hoped for, and he smiles as he feels the pull at his arm, as though from far away. This is why he comes here, this is why he seeks out the vampires--this peace. He's been afraid to let it go this far before, but this...

He sighs, surrendering to it.

_This is the last time._


End file.
